


Like a Paperback Novel

by missmichellebelle



Series: Tropetember [10]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Brief Mentions of Bipolar Disorder, Epithet Overload, Fluff, Future Fic, Humor, Laundromat, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-12
Packaged: 2018-02-17 05:09:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2297705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because there’s a comfort in knowing that when Ian walks into his laundromat at 7:30pm on a Tuesday night, he’ll see the older woman who always looks so <i>tired</i>, and the young newlyweds who have been married a good eight months but who still smile stupidly at each other constantly, and the girl around his age with the colorful dreads who is always wearing headphones and dancing like no one else is there.</p><p>And the guy with the latent scowl and the worn paperback book, who has possibly the bluest eyes that Ian has ever seen in person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Paperback Novel

**Author's Note:**

> **Tropetember** is a month long event where the goal is to write a fic fulfilling a different trope/AU every day (except Sundays apparently whoops). If there is a specific trope/AU you would like to see, please [drop me an ask on tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> Took an unexpected break yesterday, sorry. So I'll probably post a fic on Sunday ~~since I didn't post two today like I was going to try to do, inspiration is a bitch sometimes~~.
> 
>  
> 
> **Also, since a lot of the reviews I've gotten are along the lines of, "I need more," and, "when will there be more," my answer is: not until October at the earliest. I kind of need to finish this thing I'm in the middle of first. And for most of the fics I've written, there will never be any more. Ever. That's not why I'm writing these.**
> 
>  
> 
> As of right now, the fics I do want to write more of are the nanny!Ian and the mermaid!Ian fics, but that's it (outside of barista, since I started that verse before all of this). Same goes for this one. Some fics are just better left where they end.

Every Tuesday night, Ian does his laundry at the laundromat that’s a block away from his apartment. It’s not as nice as the one three blocks in the other direction, but it’s already a pain in the ass lugging his laundry _one_ block, he can’t imagine trying to go _three_. Sure, there are machines in his building, but they essentially cost a human organ to use, and Ian would much rather pay for convenience with his time and energy than with his actual money.

It’s his routine—well, his Tuesday routine. Wake up, meds, eat, work out, shower, work, eat, work, eat, meds, laundry, sleep. It’s always the same, which Ian can admit is a little dull (and some days, he is revolted with how systematic his own life has become), but it’s important for him to have. The doctors have said, time and time again, to “maintain a routine,” so he does. Probably a little more strictly than they meant, but there’s nothing wrong with rigid order.

Ian likes order. It makes him feel at ease. It makes him feel normal. It makes him feel _safe_.

With his own routine never changing, it really isn’t strange that he crosses paths with the same people every week. They might not all follow schedules as obsessively as he does ( _must_ ), but they still seem to coincide with him. It becomes a part of his own routine, seeing those same strangers every week, to the point where it would probably throw Ian off more than he’s comfortable admitting if one of them was _absent_.

Because there’s a comfort in knowing that when he walks into his laundromat at 7:30pm on a Tuesday night, he’ll see the older woman who always looks so _tired_ , and the young newlyweds who have been married a good eight months but who still smile stupidly at each other constantly, and the girl around his age with the colorful dreads who is always wearing headphones and dancing like no one else is there.

And the guy with the latent scowl and the worn paperback book, who has possibly the bluest eyes that Ian has ever seen in person.

Not that he’s been close enough to view them properly, or anything.

These people are his Tuesday night laundry people, and sometimes Ian thinks he should talk to them—like they’ve seen each other so much that it’s silly to be strangers. But he never does. Everyone seems content with the arrangement they have, and well.

Ian would hate to break routine.

*

One Tuesday, Ian enters the laundromat and half of the washers are blocked off by paper signs and lengths of tape, but since that’s not exactly enough to keep out the general public, they appear to have zero power, as well. It’s probably maintenance or something reasonable, but Ian stares at the bank of unusable machines for an unreasonably long amount of time. Because some of those washers are _his_ washers—the same ones he always uses, every Tuesday, for the last _year_.

He swallows down the swell of anxiety, because it’s fucking stupid. He just has to use different washing machines. It’s not the end of the world.

His people are there—Old Tired Lady, Adorably Happy Couple, Dancing Dreads Girl, and Blue-Eyed Book Boy. With half the machines out of commission, they’re all forced into a smaller space, and all but three washers are currently in use. On the off chance that someone comes in (because there generally are other people, they just aren’t as constant as those five), Ian hurries over and snags them.

As soon as he settles into sorting his clothes between the two open washers, everything feels normal again. Ease sinks through him on a single exhale, and he smiles. Laundry is this monotonous thing that most people hate, but Ian finds comfort in it and the way it’s always constant.

“Yo.”

Ian startles, shoulders going still and clothes bunching in his hands, and turns his head.

It’s Blue-Eyed Book Boy, staring at him in a vaguely annoyed fashion and gesturing to the machine next to one of the ones Ian is using.

“Mind moving your bag, sunshine?”

It takes a minute for Ian to understand what he’s being asked to do, blinking at this person he has been doing laundry with for over half a year and has never spoken to before. It never occurred to Ian that he kind of imagined what Blue-Eyed Book Boy’s voice might sound like, and only realizes it when he thinks, _His voice isn’t as soft as I thought it would be_.

His eyes remind Ian of the color water turns when it rains.

“Oh!” Ian grabs at his still partially full laundry bag, “Yeah, sorry.” He takes it up into his arms, holding it rather awkwardly. Generally, the machine next to his isn’t in use—Ian hadn’t even thought twice about just setting his bag there. Ian knows that the next step is to just put down the lids of one of his machines to set his bag onto, but he just keeps holding at it and staring at Blue-Eyed Book Boy’s profile as he shovels wet clothes into one of the laundry carts.

This lasts about thirty seconds, before the frown on his face deepens and he snaps his attention back to Ian.

“You wanna take a fucking picture?” He snaps, and Ian’s eyes widen. He hadn’t meant to stare, _really_ , he just sort of… Got caught up in it. Ian doesn’t say anything, just averts his eyes, and then goes back to sorting his dirty clothes. Distractedly. Because he keeps side-glancing at Blue-Eyed Book Boy with interest. He’s… Hostile, in an intriguing kind of way that makes Ian want to know why there’s a furrow between his eyebrows. Or why he always looks so… Angry, and unhappy, like one day he frowned so hard that his face just sort of stayed that way.

And then he’s done, and Ian snaps his eyes forward so that he’s not caught looking. He hears the slam of the washing machine’s lid, and then a jeering, “Nice Captain America boxers you got there, firecrotch.” Ian realizes he’s been holding a pair of underwear in his hands for at least the last five minutes.

When he snaps around to look at Blue-Eyed Book Boy, he’s pushing his cart of wet laundry away, and Ian sees a paperback novel stuck in the back pocket of his jeans. Which is really just a very good excuse to check out his ass. Ian wonders if those are laundry day pants, or if all of his jeans are that concealing.

Ian kind of wants to find out.

And that’s the day that Ian’s routine changes.

*

By the following Tuesday, all the machines are back in order, and it’s like nothing has changed.

Only things _have_ changed, because Ian heard Blue-Eyed Book Boy’s voice and got a peek into who he is as a person, and it kind of… Ruined everything. Ian is no longer content with letting these strangers who aren’t really strangers stay at a distance. He wants to know their names, and what they do for a living, and what they sound like when they laugh, and what they look like in jeans that fit.

And okay, maybe most of those really only apply to Blue-Eyed Book Boy, but it still makes Ian curious.

So today he waves at the Adorably Happy Couple, who are bickering over a bottle of detergent but still somehow smiling while they do it, and they seem—surprised. Surprised enough that they stop whatever argument they were having and wave back.

Ian nods to himself, feeling accomplished, and thinks how maybe next week he’ll bring the Old Tired Lady a thermos of coffee or tea.

Blue-Eyed Book Boy is sitting on top of one of the washing machines (right in front of a sign that tells them _not_ to do that, which makes Ian grin a little bit), bent nearly in half as he reads the book he’s holding open in the gap between his knees. Ian is staring again, standing halfway through the laundromat with a heavy bag of dirty clothes over his shoulder, watching the way Blue-Eyed Book Boy’s eyelashes flutter as he blinks, how his teeth press into his bottom lip, how his eyes flick back and forth rapidly as he makes his way down the page.

Ian wonders what it is he’s reading.

And then, without warning, he looks up, eyes landing dead on Ian, and for a second they stare at each. Ian isn’t quite sure what to do, so he gives a small, friendly smile, and a little, one-movement wave.

Blue-Eyed Book Boy looks unamused, rolling his eyes and returning to his book before flipping Ian off.

…well, at least it’s _something_. And even if it was meant to offend him, Ian finds himself smiling, regardless.

His regular machines are open, but he makes his way for the ones a few down from where Blue-Eyed Book Boy is sitting. He seems to notice, huffing out an annoyed breath and twisting his head to downright _glare_ at Ian. It’s one of those unspoken laundry etiquette things—if there are open plenty of open machines, you don’t pick the ones right next to somebody else’s. But, to be fair, there are four machines between them.

Ian pretends not to notice that he’s being stared at, even though he’s hyper aware of the fact, as he opens his laundry bag and starts to separate his things.

He gives it about a minute before he looks over at Blue-Eyed Book Boy, and then leans against the machine to face him, eyebrow quirked.

“Need something?” Ian asks, and doesn’t quite miss the way blue eyes rake over him.

“Fuck off,” is the response he gets, and Ian just grins wider, chuckling quietly to himself as he goes back to what he was doing. It turns out that altering his schedule in these little, minute ways is _actually_ kind of fun.

*

Ian does bring tea for the Old Tired Lady on the next Tuesday, and she seems so alarmed by the small act of kindness. Her skin is leathery and warm when she presses her hands around Ian’s and introduces herself as Sylvia.

And when Dancing Dread Girl does a shimmy around him, he surprises her by taking her hand and spinning her—and she laughs, pulling her headphones off and grinning and tells Ian that her name is Kendra. Ian kind of always imagined that she was some sort of arts student, but she gleefully informs him that she’s a med-student.

That Tuesday is also the day he conveniently forgets his detergent, because as easy as it is to approach Sylvia and Kendra, Ian knows that he needs to be a little more subtle with Blue-Eyed Book Boy.

Again, he aims for the machines a few down from where Blue-Eyed Book Boy is—today, he’s sprawled across the top of several machines on his back, leg dangling over the edge as he holds his book over his face.

Ian makes sure that his laundry bag hits the top of the washing machine with a particularly loud _thunk_ , subtly glancing to the side and seeing that Blue-Eyed Book Boy looks slightly more annoyed than he had a second ago. Ian starts to hum softly as he divides up his laundry, and then stops abruptly to start mumbling under his breath. “Shit, are you fucking kidding me?” He hisses, digging through his clothes for the liquid detergent he already knows isn’t there. But he’s got to make a show of it. After all, he doesn’t want Blue-Eyed Book Boy to know he did it on purpose.

Huffing out in frustration and frowning, Ian grips the edge of the washing machine and taps his fingers against it, before turning his head slowly to look at Blue-Eyed Book Boy.

Who is staring at him in vague amusement, one dark eyebrow raised.

“Do you have any detergent I could borrow?”

“No,” Blue-Eyed Book Boy responds, turning back to his book. Ian raises his eyebrows, turns his body to lean his hip against the machine.

“Really? What’s that?” Ian gestures with his chin towards the box of detergent sitting near Blue-Eyed Book Boy’s ankle. He regards it for a second, and then looks back at Ian.

“My fucking detergent. Go buy your own.”

“For one load of laundry? I just forgot mine. Come on, it’s only three scoops.”

“The fuck you asking me for, then?” Blue-Eyed Book Boy finally props himself up on his elbows, and then gestures to the laundromat as a whole with his book. “Go ask one of these fucking clowns, since you all seem to be best friends all of a sudden.” With one last glare, he turns back to his book, and Ian appraises him with an amused tilt to his smile. So he’d noticed Ian interacting with the others. Noted.

Ian debates his next move, and decides, _fuck it_. Go big or go home. Even if he is about to poke what could very be a hornet’s nest.

He closes the few-machine distance between him and Blue-Eyed Book Boy, and grabs his detergent with aplomb.

“The _fuck_ —“ Ian is already back at his machines by the time Blue-Eyed Book Boy scrambles down from his perch, and has already scooped out all the detergent he needs by the time he makes it over to Ian. He promptly grabs Ian by the neck of the shirt, and slams him back against the nearest washer.

Ian’s pretty sure the entire place goes silent.

“You trying to fucking start something, tough guy?” He hisses, and he’s several inches shorter than Ian, and it’s kind of adorable. Ian’s completely un-threatened smile probably isn’t helping the whole situation.

“No, I was just borrowing some detergent, and I’m done now. See? That wasn’t so hard.” Ian reaches to the hands twisting up the fabric of his shirt (he has letters tattooed across his knuckles, _hmm_ ) and easily pulls them away. “Thanks.”

And Blue-Eyed Book Boy looks so completely _thrown_ , staring at Ian with a mixture of anger and confusion, before he gives Ian another push into the machine, picks up his detergent, and stalks away. It would probably be a lot more impactful if he went further than about eight feet.

“My name’s Ian, by the way.”

“Fuck you.”

*

The Tuesday after that, it rains.

Ian stands in his apartment and watches the downpour as it patters against the fire escape outside his window, and contemplates whether doing his laundry tonight is even worth it. There’s a chance the rain will let up in the few hours it takes to get everything done, but… There’s a chance it won’t. How confident is he that he can maneuver all of his clean, dry stuff home?

In the end, it isn’t really about that. It’s about the antsy feeling in his skin, like his body is expecting him to do something and he _isn’t_ doing it and sometimes Ian swears he’s a fucking robot or something, for the way he seems to malfunction and break over the tiniest things. He cuts his load in half, taking only the necessities and his big, sturdy umbrella out into the rain.

He’s not surprised when the laundromat is empty save for one other person, who is a complete stranger. No Sylvia, no Kendra, no adorable couple (whose names he still has to get), and no Blue-Eyed Book Boy. Ian can’t help but deflate at that.

He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that one of the reasons he ventured out into the rain was on the hope that maybe Blue-Eyed Book Boy would be here.

It feels like a waste to use two machines for the little amount of clothing that he has, but since he’s had the luxury of using more than one washing machine, he’s been meticulous about keeping his whites away from his darks and colors. He feels a little melancholy as he splits them between the machines.

“ _Shit_.”

In the quiet of the laundromat, save for the rumble of one dryer, it’s not hard to hear the sound of the door opening and closing. And as soon as Ian hears the swear, he knows who it is.

He looks over in surprise to see the same shock mirrored back at him.

“Do you fucking live here or something?” Blue-Eyed Book Boy spits. His hair is wet, and there’s water on his face, and his jacket is probably soaked through.

But the thing that Ian notices the most is that he doesn’t have any laundry with him.

“No,” Ian replies simply, keeping his attention on the other boy. “Tuesday is my laundry night.”

“Even when it’s pouring buckets?” Blue-Eyed Book Boy asks skeptically.

“…yes,” Ian answers, hesitantly, like the single word would reveal too much about himself, about his problems, about his run-down machinery that’s in constant need of attention and maintenance. “But that shouldn’t be strange to you—you’re here, too, after all.”

And this seems to draw Blue-Eyed Book Boy up short, as if he’s just realized that he doesn’t have any laundry with him. He scowls and tears off his jacket, and then the sweater underneath, until all he’s left in is a long-sleeved shirt. Ian half expects (and maybe kind of hopes) that he’ll take his pants off, too, but he doesn’t. Just strides over towards Ian and dumps his stuff in the machine _right next to his_.

Ian doesn’t comment, just presses his teeth into the skin of his lower lip to keep his smile from getting a little too big.

“Give me your fucking detergent,” Blue-Eyed Book Boy demands, and Ian turns to him with an inquisitive eyebrow. “You fucking owe me, remember?”

And Ian just grins as he slides it over to him. They’re silent as they both prepare their laundry, and Ian can’t stop being amused over the fact that Blue-Eyed Book Boy literally shed his clothes as an excuse for being there.

When the machines start to rumble, Blue-Eyed Book Boy hops on top of his, and Ian leans back against his own.

“Mickey,” Blue-Eyed Book Boy says, and Ian turns to look at him. “My name,” he clarifies. “In case you give a shit.”

Mickey.

Ian doesn’t know how to say, _I do give a shit_ , without actually saying it, so he just nods. He figures he’ll find the words for it someday.

**Author's Note:**

> [Read, Reblog, & Like on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/97362801670/like-a-paperback-novel)


End file.
